A few hours ago, I was sorting through a box of old papers, when I came across these lyrics to a song I’d composed nearly fifty years ago, at the tender age of seventeen! I have decided to share it with the readers of The Daily Blog as proof that no matter what historical era one is born into, there is always, in the eyes of the young, considerable room for improvement.
Look For The Light.
Beneath the towering concrete thrones
The people creep and crawl,
You watch them through the oozing black
That’s seeping through your wall.
The darkness slithers like a snake
Between the halls of stone,
Your voice in echoes stabs the night:
“My God, am I alone!”
That’s when you look for the light,
Hope for the light,
Have faith in the light to come.
The stench of corpses chokes the air
And hangs the senses high,
While in their red-brick coffins
The split-level heroes lie.
You’re groping through an endless day
Towards an endless night,
While armies of well-oiled machines
March onward out of sight.
That’s when you look for the light,
Hope for the light,
Have faith in the light to come.
The bold blue warriors ignite
The fires they love to hate,
And crying “Law and Order!”,
Take another for the State.
The members of the Parliament
Are eating paper pies,
As sweat soaks through their collars,
They all doze as Justice dies.
That’s when you look for the light,
Hope for the light,
Have faith in the light to come.
You’re running faster every day
To catch the same old train,
With icy faces staring out
From every window pane.
The streets are growing metal bars
To keep us in our place,
And every night the sirens wail,
Quickening the pace.
That’s when you look for the light,
Hope for the light,
Have faith in the light to come.
Chris Trotter 1973
“Living lives of quiet desperation”-it’s the provincial (South Island) way…
One can imagine where the imagery eminates from. I kept some poems from ‘73 which a school friend had written, and was he annoyed when I produced them, him being a Barrister these days.
An ‘A’ for honesty to Mr Trotter.
Now, now, that’s quite enough North Island chauvinism, Tiger.
When I was seventeen I was living in the Hutt Valley – plenty of quiet desperation there, too, believe me!
And the Tron too, believe me.
Great picture, reminiscent of Picasso’s. ‘ Guernica’, which came later. Have a poem written 50 years ago parked in the suburban soullessness of Luton UK, saying, “They’re not cutting trees down, man, they’re cutting you down”. Ten years later published by Landfall writing, “ Sleeping gods in the mountains, save the children”.
Kelvin, where are you ? Come in Kelvin, come in. Jacinda, what about the wounded children moved round like strategic Chinese checkers?
You’re like a Aladdin’s lamp Chris, just a little contact and out pops the genie in a puff of smoke, maybe hallucinogenic? Maybe that’s just what we need.
Aladdin’s lamp – Idioms by The Free Dictionary
a talisman that enables its owner to fulfil every desire. In the Arabian Nights tale of Aladdin, the hero finds a magic lamp in a cave. He discovers that rubbing it summons a powerful genie who is able to carry out all his wishes.
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